Kisses in the Wind
by blacksakura13
Summary: Sometimes Hibari thinks he's going crazy but he know's its Mukuro fooling him. It's always Mukuro. 6918


It was like kissing the wind, not that that made any sense to anyone else but him but he supposed that was the way he wanted it to be. He wouldn't want anyone knowing what was going in his mind.

Which was why it was a certain someone that was constantly on his mind, he's not sure if it's of his own volition but either way he can't stop thinking about him, provoked him in a silent room or during a dark and lonely night. He supposed he wasn't always alone. He supposed he would never be alone. No, not while the other was still alive and breathing at least.

Maybe, just maybe, if he were to feel his warm blood dripping down his arms, seeing the ruby red blood that kept him alive splattered on the floor, on the walls, on his weapons, maybe then he'd be alone. Maybe then he'd finally be alone again in the solitude of his mind, just the way he liked it and just the way it had always been.

He scoffed. He sighed. He was irritated. As if he'd be left alone that easily. The man was like a shadow, always there, always behind him, always watching, always silently observing on the sidelines. Maybe he heard a laugh, maybe he imagined it; it was haunting him, no matter where he went.

There's a breeze against his skin, cool fingers against his lips. They're not really there but he wishes they were, he thinks, but he's not sure if his mind is being manipulated into wanting to feel his skin against him or if he's confused intimacy for violence. It's a thin line, he supposes, and maybe yes, he does want to feel him; feel his blood on his lips, his neck in his hands, as is should be.

It's cold. He feels lips brush against the shell of his ear, but surely that is not real. He's alone in the room, just him and the wind quietly dancing in through the opened window. Yet he hears his laughter again, his mocking laughter, the laugh he wishes he could destroy somehow but he has yet to find a method of destroying sounds. Maybe he could replace it with something else. A scream of agony, maybe, but he doesn't know.

The wind plays with his hair (or is it someone's hand?) and he wants to nuzzle the wind, if it was only more solid and fathomable in his hands. It feels nice, he want's to feel it more but he can't because the wind stops and he's frustrated and slams the window shut and closes the world out.

He closes his eyes and he can almost swear he can hear him, see him, as if he's standing right there in the room with him but that's impossible.

"Kyouya," says the silence in the room. That's impossible.

He sits on the couch. He's thinking that maybe he's had a long day and that much is true. There were too many annoyances for his liking and his never leaving migraine only adds to the fatigue that he now feels in his bones and he lays down for a nap. The cushions are soft, the room is warm and he's dozing off, slipping in between reality and dreams and he feels above the clouds.

There are hands on his head, fingers against his temples, gently rubbing small circles, soothing circles, and he knows he's dreaming when he feels hair tickling his cheek; the long, long hair that makes the bastard look like a woman, makes him look so much older than he actually is.

He feels cold lips brushing against his. Everything about him is cold, soothing.

He sits up, surprised and snapped out of his sleep and he's alone. He tries to open his eyes, but there's something in the way. Cool hands, he's sure, and this time he knows they're real. This time he knows that he really isn't alone in the room this time and he stills when he feels a body behind him, strong and lithe and not really there and he's frustrated all over again.

The hands are away from his eyes but he keeps them shut. Arms are around his waist and a chin is rested on his shoulder and he is being nuzzled and he hates to admit that it is very relaxing and he doesn't want it to stop. He nuzzles back and starts to relax, the stress draining from his body like water from a broken dam. He's at peace in the arms of a shadow.

"I missed you," a voice coos near his ear and he's expecting the warm breath of human life but all he receives is an icy chill from the depths of the darkest pit known to the mafia world and he shudders. The arms tighten around him in a loving embrace that almost seems foreign to him but not unaccepted.

"I didn't" he replied, and he must look silly talking to himself but he doesn't really care. "What are you doing here?" He feels those lips on his neck. He sighs and hums idly, leaning into the touch.

There are lips against his again. "Beware of enemies amongst those surrounding you," he whispered against his skin then he was gone, as if he was never there to begin with. He probably wasn't. It's always like this.

He opens his eyes and sure enough, he is alone.

He presses the tips of his fingers against his lips and smirks.

* * *

**A/N:  
Hi, oneshot. I don't actually know what I'm saying here but whatever. My fingers have their own mind.  
Uh, kind of an intermission for "Of Alternate Universes" because I'm kind of stuck on this chapter but oddly enough I have the next one ready.  
**


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